


natural disaster

by kagome_angel



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M, Sexy Times, free flowing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 00:42:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9574298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kagome_angel/pseuds/kagome_angel
Summary: He’s a natural disaster, simultaneously painfully beautiful and horrifically devastating.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Why in the world is this anime wanting me to write for it now? Quote towards the end-ish is from a poem by Caitlyn Siehl.

It’s three in the morning (how ironic) and Munakata is wide awake, pacing the floor, tense and aggravated, hating himself for even considering answering a call that hasn’t even been made—not really. He can hear it (he thinks), but not like he can feel it; energy thrums through him, demanding to be felt, pleading to be released, and the disdain that he feels (for himself, for his weakness) doesn’t roar nearly loud enough to silence _this_. It’s wrongwrong _wrong_ on a thousand different levels and he knows it and yet—

\--Here he is, feet carrying him to where he needs (wants) to be, nerve endings on fire and he desperately wishes there were some other outlet for this (desperately wishes that he had the good sense and the desire to go looking elsewhere for something – some _one_ – less insalubrious and less destructive), but what’s the point once you’ve found what works?

There’s just enough light in the holding cell for Munakata to see that he isn’t the only one awake at this ridiculous hour—so is the individual who has called out to him without uttering a single syllable; it’s like gravitational pull and Munakata has equally wordlessly answered the request, the demand. 

Twin pools of amber are half-lidded, the light catches them just _so_ , and the _knowing_ unhidden within them makes Munakata feel as if he should be sick, rather than slightly perturbed, but it’s always been this way between them. Mikoto has always thrown him off-kilter, always thrown everything Munakata _ought_ to be feeling right out the window, has always burned through it all, right to his core… and that is something he will never breathe aloud to the Red King, something he himself should be ashamed of, but woulda-coulda-shoulda means nothing here in this space between them.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” Mikoto drawls, shifting and smirking as the walls close behind Munakata, the security system he’s put in place effectively locking them in together. Mikoto asks, but the truth of the matter is that he already knows, and he’s only asking so that he can hold the knowledge of the truth over Munakata’s head.

Munakata does and does not take the bait. He crosses the remaining distance between them and leans in, forehead touching Mikoto’s, hands pressed flat against the wall on either side of the Red King’s body. “Suoh,” he says simply, curtly, eyes narrowing as the other man smirks at him and raises one eyebrow expectantly.  
“Yes?” Short, simple, an almost-purr, and Munakata both detests and enjoys (not that he’d admit it) the way it makes him sway closer in response—his answer comes in the form of his lips colliding with Mikoto’s, no finesse or gentleness, simply raw contact.

Mikoto angles into it, and he’s all spitfire and venom and quicksilver; he’s all teeth and tongue and small sounds that makes Munakata growl in response. He feels Mikoto smile against his mouth and it irritates him; he draws back just a fraction, Mikoto’s lower lip between his teeth, flesh giving way to bone and there is the metallic taste of blood between them.

“Don’t pout like that,” Mikoto admonishes and then he’s surging up again, capturing Munakata’s lips in another searing kiss, metal rattling against wood, and even though it’s probably the stupidest idea he’s had in at least the past few days, Munakata goes through with it anyway because he wants Mikoto to _feel_ ….

Had his mind been clearer, perhaps he would have left Mikoto bound (bound, but never helpless—the Red King had always been far too prideful and clever for that), but it isn’t, and he doesn’t, and the moment the slots clatter noisily to the floor, Mikoto’s hands are on him, pulling and prying and Munakata actually allows it for a moment. He allows those hands to pull him in, to hold onto him, to keep him in place.

(Believing that he’s _allowing_ Mikoto to do this gives him the illusion that he has a choice in the matter, that his mental faculties are somehow still with him and that they haven’t given way to this whirlwind of _want_ that’s working its way through him, silencing everything else.)

Munakata grabs at Mikoto’s hands, encircling his wrists and squeezing, pushing, forcing the redhead to lean back against the wall, wrists pinned above his head. He watches the play of light across Mikoto’s skin, watches as those lips curve upwards in a decidedly self-satisfied smirk. 

“You know, I like this better than that shit you were using,” Mikoto says, and oh, if this isn’t the eye of the storm, Munakata doesn’t know what is. Mikoto could fight him, but he doesn’t. Mikoto could use his powers and try to escape, but he doesn’t. Instead, he seems as content as a cat lapping at a saucer of milk—and the thing is, they both know that right now, he is exactly where he wants to be; he’s trapped because _he’s allowing_ it.

Munakata casts a quick glance to the floor where the stocks lay, and he can’t help but smirk, himself. “I’ll see what I can do,” he replies, not really knowing what he means by that and not really caring either, because Mikoto is warm and inviting and pliant and _daring_ , and Munakata _throbs_ at the sight of him – like this – alone. 

“You have me here like this,” the redhead prompts, making a show of a feigned struggle (and yes, Munakata does tighten his grip even though he doesn’t need to), “what will you do with me now?”

(And isn’t that the one-million-dollar question?)

Munakata knows what he _wants_ to do—knows he wants to have Mikoto splayed beneath him, moving against him, teeth and nails pinpoints of pain against his overly-heated flesh. He knows he wants to be inside of Mikoto, pushing in deep, but this isn’t the place for that (although he supposes it _could_ be, if he wanted it to be; food for thought for next time), and so he’ll settle for what he _can_ have right now.

He settles himself on the other man’s lap—more warmth, hardness and softness and flesh and too many clothes, and if he moves his hips just so, it makes both of them gasp, makes something deep inside of him twist and turn.

He keeps his hands where they are, on Mikoto’s wrists, and he studies the Red King, noting the way his lashes are at half-mast and the way his pink tongue darts out to lick at his lips. He is waiting and wanting, obviously ready for Munakata’s next move.

Mikoto is a forest fire, a tornado, a volcano, a hurricane, blazing and tearing through everything that he encounters, neither knowing nor caring what kind of destruction he leaves in his wake. 

He’s a fucking natural disaster, simultaneously painfully beautiful and horrifically devastating. 

_Beautiful_ , Munakata thinks, doesn’t realize he’s said it out loud until Mikoto’s facial features change—his smile becomes softer at the edges, and there’s a different sort of warmth in his eyes. 

He doesn’t remember letting go of Mikoto’s wrists, but between one blink and then next Mikoto’s hands are on his hips and he’s arching up into him, pressure and friction and _oh_ , and Mikoto’s mouth is liquid heat against his skin. His movements are teasing and languid, lazy, slow, like they have the luxury of time when they don’t; when Munakata closes his eyes these days he sees the Red King’s Sword of Damocles crumbling—

It makes him angry, the inevitability of it all, reminds him that they have right _now_ and that’s it; it sends him spiraling into motion, into action. His hands grasp Mikoto’s wrists again and he pins them back in place once more. He transfers his grip to his left hand, pressing hard, feeling bones shift beneath skin. His right hand moves to Mikoto’s head, fingers tangling into red locks and twisting, tugging, exposing Mikoto’s throat. The guttural growl that rises from the Red King could be due to pain or pleasure or both, Munakata isn’t sure, but when those eyes are glazed over and when Munakata leans in to press his lips to one of the pulse points in Mikoto’s neck, the rhythm is staccato, and the Blue King cannot help the moan that escapes him. Nor can he help the way his hips jerk against Mikoto’s. This isn’t enough, it isn’t enough, and he needs, he _needs_. 

“This is supposed to be about what _I_ want to do to _you_ ,” Munakata admonishes, nipping sharply at incredibly warm skin. “This isn’t about what you want to do to me.”

It’s almost believable. Almost.

Until: “Fuck, Reisi,” Mikoto grits out on a sharp exhale, “ _touch_ me.” It is perhaps equal parts plea and command, it is _entirely_ need.

And Munakata finds himself incapable of denying either of them.

One-handed, he deals with the button and zipper and the cloth that’s separating them both from what they need, and as soon as his fingers curl around Mikoto’s erection and begin to stroke, Mikoto keens and shudders against him, and he’s reminded that his own straining length is still trapped within the confines of his clothing. 

He abandons all semblance of trying to keep Mikoto restrained, of trying to control some portion of this, of not coming completely undone (time and time again) because of this insane, infuriating man who’s arching into his touch and making sounds that are sending him closer and closer to the edge without Mikoto even directly touching him. He mentally scraps everything except the end result, which is what they both need, and he releases the Red King’s hands, moves to unbutton and unzip and adjust, and then it’s firm skin pushing against firm skin and his right hand is stroking them together and Munakata doesn’t really care that he can’t think straight; he doesn’t care that all he can see right now is the way Mikoto’s head tips back as their bodies move together, lips parted just slightly, and it’s so fucking _good_ to see him like this that it _hurts_.

He’s already half-gone and it’s the addition of Mikoto’s hand, wrapping around them, fingers linking with Munakata’s, _pressing_ , stroking, which tips him right over the edge (it’s nothingsomething _everything_ ) and he muffles his groan in the crook of Mikoto’s neck. 

Mikoto follows a moment later with a hiss and a moan, body shuddering, and Munakata crazily thinks that if he holds on a little tighter to this, maybe he can keep the Red King from breaking, shattering into a thousand different pieces. 

When he’s coming down from the high, Munakata surveys the damage—they’re both a bit of a mess, and their breathing is still all erratic, but it isn’t like this can’t be cleaned up, right?

(Not everything can—some things leave stains forever.)

Mikoto makes a noise and Munakata’s eyes scan his face, linger there until he closes his eyes because Mikoto’s leaning in to kiss him, and it’s slow and honey-sweet and thorough, containing none of his usual frenzy. Munakata swears he feels something inside of himself break.

He wants to stop time. He wants to keep Mikoto here, breathing the same air (in spite of what he’d said to him earlier), but he knows that the redhead is incapable of being idle for too long.

_I will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible. And when I leave you will finally understand why storms are named after people._

Munakata thinks he’s read that before, somewhere, thinks he understands it perfectly, now. 

Mikoto will leave him in ruins, he’s almost certain. 

Maybe he should be concerned about that, but right now, with the Red King pressed against him like this and his brain stuck in a post-orgasmic haze, he can’t quite count himself as anything other than fortunate. 

It’s moments like these in which he can dare to hope even though he knows better.

Mikoto is doggedly stubborn and this can only end one way. And when that time comes, Munakata will be there to either extinguish the fire or become engulfed in the flames, himself. 

He won’t ever admit it out loud, but he doesn’t mind so much if it’s the latter, and it’s _that_ which should terrify him most of all—that complacency, that blind acceptance. 

(The truth of the matter is, it doesn’t, not in the slightest.)

 

~END~


End file.
